a meditation on hunger pangs

I.
my mother had a pony, all her very own, and
cream filled lady fingers for her tea parties,
doilies, dollies, and real silver.
after mass at the cathedral there was
a driver to squire her around town;
he escorted her on opera birthday-trips,
a stand in for her ever-absent father.

II.
my father spent three birthdays
alone in the charity ward-
juvenile arthritis, cold corn mash
and salted pork with flat soda bread
daily reminders that the coal camp
wasn't worth a trolley track
and his poor mam couldn't walk that far

III.
count chocula and pop tarts
ice cream and coke before bed
i would have died of plenty
before i'd ever have heard 'no.'
who could blame them really,
confusing nourishment with
the quieting of an appetite.

IV.
the sweet grainy crust of this life,
rubs my tongue raw
the sugar bores into my heart
firing up lusts, burning out my tastebuds
while i chew, desperate to get to the center,
dense and warm like marrow,
and satisfying, i believe,
but not that sweet.

V.
i wish i had a fast to break
i would bring you hard, tangy apples
gathered from old, old trees.
and honey, still dark and waxy,
for us to strain together.